


How The Malfoy Heir Dies At 18. How Harry Potter Succumbs To The Loss

by eatamilkbone



Series: Malfoy Heir, Dead at 18 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, EWE, Falling In Love, Funeral, Grief, Heartbreaking, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Love, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Pain, Post-War, Regret, Remorse, Romance, Sad, Sad with a Happy Ending, Suicidal Ideation, Tragedy, Trigger Warnings, Trigger Warnings - suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 12:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19151512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatamilkbone/pseuds/eatamilkbone
Summary: Draco Malfoy shows up at Harry Potter's to thank him for his testimony that saved Draco from Azkaban. When a romance ensues, it is a brief light in both men's lives before Draco's crippling depression and regret leads him to suicide. Here we also learn how Harry dealt with the loss of his boyfriend, the Malfoy Heir who decided to die at the age of 18.This is an accompanying piece toMalfoy Heir Dead at 18, now part of the short seriesMalfoy Heir, Dead at 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Major trigger warnings: referenced rape of adults and children. Suicide. Pain, grief and loss.

Draco stood tall, shoulders back, his best robes on. He was in the ante chamber waiting to be called for his hearing in front of the Wizengamot, who would decide his fate. He was between two options; Azkaban or release. Azkaban, he was aware, could give him a term of anything between a week and life for his war crimes. 

Yet, Draco was hopeful that he would be pardoned. He had been young when he was forced to take the Mark and he had been threatened into fixing the cabinet and letting the Death Eaters in to Hogwarts. His and his parent’s lives had been on the line if he did not kill Dumbledore and he hoped these facts would be enough to save him from the tortures of Azkaban.

Draco had thought of nothing else for a week. He had obsessed over the possibilities of his release and the probabilities of his imprisonment. When he had been told there were people willing to speak on his behalf, his hope had had blossomed and it was frightfully potent. He wasn’t sure what he would do if it failed him. 

When called upon, he entered the room for his hearing with as much grace as he could muster. Tall, determined and (he hoped) humble in appearance, he took his seat and waited to be judged.

As the questions, accusations and testimonials against him permeated his calm demeanor, he sat patiently and waited and waited.

And then, Harry Potter stood in his defence. 

Draco sat alert, (this time certainly) humbled and most certainly hopeful. 

This was it, he knew. This testimonial _for_ his release was the only thing that would keep him out of gaol. 

And it worked.

From that moment on, all hope turned to gratefulness. 

.

.

.

It took begging Weasley to find Harry’s address. Draco openly pleaded with Ron to give him the address so he could thank Harry and despite Ron’s firm rejection of Draco’s plea, Ron’s kind mother provided it to him with a pleasant smile.

Draco, turning away to apparate, heard Mrs. Weasley chide Ron with, “Give him a chance, Ronald. It’s not your choice to turn him away.”

.

.

.

Draco knocked on the door, and when it opened to Harry in his muggle clothes all relaxed and open in aura, Draco found himself for the first time looking at Harry with something close to attraction.

Harry was absolutely gorgeous. His messy hair and short-ish stature were complimented handsomely by a strong jaw and forest-green eyes but it was his welcoming smile that knocked Draco off balance.

“Hello,” Harry greeted.

“Can I come in?” Draco asked before Harry stepped aside to let him in.

.

.

.

They had exchanged pleasantries, and talked for hours. Harry divulged some of his rule-breaking activities at school and Draco had responded with stories of his own. Harry had his house elf cook them dinner, a good hearty dinner, and Draco found his gratefulness at Harry’s testimony morph in to a overwhelming attraction for Harry that caused him tunnel vision; the only thing he could see was Harry, and the only thing he could hear was Harry, and the only thing he wanted was Harry to touch him.

But for hours, Harry didn’t. But then he did. He playfully pushed Draco when Draco had won a round of exploding snap for the fifth time in a row, and when Harry touched him he saw stars.

Draco must have given Harry a shocked look, because Harry backed away quickly and apologised. However, the look was born from overwhelming want, not from annoyance, and the only thing Draco could do to remedy the situation was launch himself at Harry in to a wrestling match.

“Not fair, not fair!” Draco protested when Harry got the upper hand.

“It’s not my fault you’re all skinny and weak,” Harry jibed, pinning Draco beneath him.

Between bouts of laughter, Draco tried to defend himself vocally. “You have all these comfortable clothes on, Potter. I’m dressed for a formal meeting.”

“That’s because you are a right posh bastard.”

“I am, it’s true,” Draco confirmed, smiling widely. 

As Harry went to get off Draco, attesting that he had won the round and that was that, Draco quickly placed his hands on Harry’s thighs and stopped him. “Please don’t move,” Draco asked.

“What?” Harry replied, confused and wary.

“Stay.”

“Stay on top of you?” Harry was dumbfounded, it was clear. “Draco... I...”

“Apologies, Potter. It slipped out. I’m sorry.” Draco blushed, humiliated by his request. His wanting attraction that had been so fierce before crashed down around him into a hyper-aware embarrassment. Everything in Harry’s lounge seemed to come into definition, mocking him.

“Oh,” Harry moved off Draco, who sat up immediately and stood just as swift.

“I should be going, it’s probably really late.”

“It is,” Harry confirmed, pointing at a clock on the mantelpiece. “But you should stay. Too late to travel.”

Draco scoffed. “I’ll be fine. I can floo straight to the Manor.” Draco moved towards the fireplace, not looking at Harry.

“Draco, wait!”

Draco turned, slowly looking up at Harry. 

“We were having a good time,” Harry told him, “just stay... whatever just happened is fine.”

“I’m so embarrassed. I came here to thank you and I have ended up trying it on with you.”

“That’s okay,” Harry soothed. “I don’t mind.”

Harry reached out to Draco, and took his wrist in hand. “Come on, why don’t grab something to drink or-“

Draco couldn’t help it. Harry had given him purchase enough to pull Harry in towards him and kiss him firmly on the lips. 

“I don’t think I can make a secret of it Harry. I want you.”

The attraction was back, but Draco was confident and daring this time.

Harry reached up to Draco’s neck and pulled him down into a deeper kiss. It was tentative at first but the kiss picked up pace quickly and turned into something powerful and lustful.

“I’ve never done this before,” Harry confessed, “with a man, I mean.”

“That’s okay,” Draco said. “I know what I’m doing.”

Harry moaned with wanton need at Draco’s confidence, and it lit Draco up quickly. 

“I’m a virgin,” Harry told Draco quietly between kisses. 

“I haven’t had sex with a bloke,” Draco said, “just the other stuff.”

“Do you want too?”

“With you?”

“Yeah... I mean, with anyone?” 

“Of course,” Draco replied huskily. “And with you? Certainly.”

Harry moaned again, deep and breathy. 

“Can I take you to bed?” Draco whispered against Harry’s lips.

“Yes.”

.

.

.

Draco had, seemingly, moved in straight away. He was always there, and Harry wanted him there always. Between rough housing and playing games, and exploring each other in bed, they had an exciting first month of passion and discovery that they kept hidden from their friends and family.

Draco’s attraction to Harry quickly turned into a deep, earth splitting love. It ran deeper than any fear he had during the war and any desire he had had in his entire life.

For the first month, all he could feel was love and excitement.

But one day, he must have caught a glimpse of the Mark in a bad light or noticed something in the house that gave him an association to an event during the war, and his life changed immediately.

Whilst the love for Harry still continued, it was overshadowed by a heart stopping panic. The panic was, truly, brought upon by the knowledge that there was _nothing_ he could do to change what he had done during the war. Making the panic even worse was remembering how afraid he had been when the Death Eaters and Voldemort had occupied the Manor, and how the rapes and tortures of muggles and blood traitors permeated all the walls of his home. He felt appalled at himself that he didn’t even try to help any of those murdered people, preferring to be selfish and look out for only his and his family’s skin.

Not even saving Harry in the Manor was enough to dispel his panic and his regret.

Draco told Harry nothing of his panic and onset of depression, instead trying to stay positive and engaged during all their normal activities. However, after a few days it became more and more apparent to Harry that something was desperately wrong.

Draco wasn’t eating properly, and he wasn’t fire calling his mum as often as he used too. He would go to bed early instead of staying up with Harry to read or listen to the wireless. He stopped completely leaving the house. Harry observed that Draco was absent in mind a lot of the time and when Draco had a full on panic attack that left him quivering on the floor, Harry began the process of begging Draco to see a Mind Healer.

Draco had done it just to pay lip service to Harry. Only a tiny portion of his being actually wanted to get better; the biggest part of his being was resolved to feeling like this forever.

Such is depression and trauma; they cement you in, coaxing you to never leave.

Despite his overwhelming darkness, Draco showed some signs of improvement, but when Harry told Draco he planned to go back to Hogwarts and finish his studies, Draco fell apart bit by bit in worry and fretfulness as he knew he could not join his boyfriend back at school.

“I’ll never go back,” Draco told him firmly. “Too many bad memories.”

“I understand,” Harry gave, visibly disheartened.

In the final month of their summer together before Harry left, Harry spent his mornings pleading with Draco to take his mind potions and do nice things like take trips to the beach for ice cream and indulge in muggle junk food... all activities Draco had enjoyed before. 

Harry shook his tail feather in front of Draco, hoping that some dirty playtime might rouse Draco out of his melancholy, but it refused to do so. The only time Draco exhibited any lightness of personality was in the mornings after sleep, where he would nuzzle Harry and smile at him, as if there was nothing else to love in the world.

.

.

.

In the three days before Harry’s departure, Draco perked up. He was enthusiastic for Harry, and he promised Harry to visit at Hogsmeade as often as possible, and relished in Harry’s promises to come back every weekend he could. 

With Draco’s apprently improved countenance, Harry thought Draco must be getting better. 

But when Harry left to take the train to school, Draco shut the front door and was immediately set upon by the ghosts of his past that clawed their way from his solar plexus where they had lay dormant, right up into his throat where they activated the panic again.

This time, without Harry as an anchor, the panic turned to outright horror.

The walls mocked him,

The books sneered at him, growling that he could never understand or derive any pleasure from their contents.

The wireless was just buzzing. 

The food in the kitchen was nausea inducing.

The bedroom was lonely.

The house cold.

The garden suffocating.

And everything that Harry had worn, such as the pyjamas discarded on the floor, frightened Draco because they were stark reminders of what he had let get away.

The bed they shared was a safe haven for a few nights, but then it lost Harry’s smell and Draco was left with a bed that just reminded him that Harry had gone.

In the end, Grimmauld Place became a tomb where his happiness had died and rotted away, whilst he was left to breathe festering air.

He stopped seeing the mind healer, but nothing changed when he did; he was already at rock bottom and so leaving Healer Fox’s care was not crisis causing.

He was elated when the first letter from Harry appeared, but upon opening the letter he was distraught to find he could not connect with the loving statements Harry had penned on to the parchment.

He wrote back, faking happiness, and he thought it might have worked because when Harry came home from school for a weekend, he was unconcerned by Draco’s demeanour in any noticeable way. In fairness, Draco made a huge effort, and he did so all the way through until the Autumn holidays. He even managed to keep up the façade then by taking his potions in front of Harry and engaging in everything Harry wanted to do.

For a while, he felt as if he was better. The hollowness disappeared and he felt filled with hope again. 

But it only took a week for Harry to be gone before he became suicidal.

It started off with minuscule flashes of suicidal ideation that he could easily ignore. Meanwhile, his sense of self was being changed again in to one constructed of remorseful evil doings. All he heard were the screams of men, women and children being raped by Death Eaters who had joined the movement for the sanctioned torture and abuse of muggles and blood traitors, rather than the belief in blood purity and wizard supremacy. 

All Draco could see in his mind’s eye were the times Harry left him, Harry’s nose breaking under his shoe, students seizing under the cruciatus curse by the hands of other students during his seventh year, his own mother being beaten by his father, Voldemort laughing as he branded Draco, Draco acting like a pretentious twat all throughout his teenage years not knowing that the war would turn him into a failure at an molecular level, Dumbledore dying, Bellatrix torturing Hermione, Luna and Olivander in the dungeons begging for food, Nagini swallowing muggles whole and alive and so on and so forth.

All Draco could see of himself was the Mark, The Mark. The Mark.

Hyperventilating and on auto pilot, Draco left Grimmauld Place for the Manor in the week before Christmas holidays. He bounced around in the cold shell of a building, not caring that his mother fussed and worried over him. He walked the halls in a daze, collapsing at night in his bedroom whilst the suicidal ideation grew from snapshots of thought into hours of fantasy.

His letters to Harry were only a few lines here and there. He had nothing to say any more.

.

.

.

It was a Wednesday night when he finally could do it. 

Everything was quiet by now. No sounds from outside his head could get at him.

His mother was asleep.

He spent a long time looking at himself in the mirror, acting as judge and jury to his own existence. 

He knew he couldn’t go on. The world held nothing for him now. He wasn’t able to live another day knowing that Harry had this full and special life and Draco would always feel like he had to siphon off all that happiness just to get through the day without crumbling.

He wasn’t able to live another day with the demon of cold regret tearing in to his chest, freezing up his organs and forcing him to sob.

He couldn’t go on one minute without his past being an active dementor, sucking up the last pieces of any happiness he might have once had.

He knew he might cause some grief to his boyfriend and mother, maybe his friends too. But in his mind, this was better than having Draco in their lives who was, in Draco’s mind, a great disappointment and hollowed out human.

He thought about writing a note. He thought about it for a long time.

Not knowing what to say, he reluctantly found a quill, ink and parchment and wrote:

_Mother, I love you, I have been glad to be your son._

_Harry, our time together was the best time of my life, I love you._

Back at the mirror in his bathroom, he stood staring peacefully now. He looked at himself or a moment or two, and then lifted his wand to his temple and cast.

Nothing happened.

He tried again and again, and it was increasingly frustrating to not be able to end his existence. 

He considered himself a failure and a waste and too broken to even end it all. And for the briefest moment he wondered if he was purposefully unable to kill himself because he truly wanted to carry on with life.

But the thought failed him.

He remembered exactly what one must do to cast the spell. One must mean it.

And so he stood stock still facing the mirror and conjured up every bad thing he had done, and he forced upon himself all the memories of his misdeeds, and he thought about how Crabbe must have felt dying in the fire, and he thought about Harry turning sweetly to wave him goodbye as he left to return to school, and he thought about the rapes and the screams and the children being tortured and he remembered that he had some part, or some whole part, in every single one of those horrendous things and he screamed with primal ferocity at himself in the mirror and it was so loud it shook the Manor.

And then he cast.

He was neither hopeful or confident or daring or grateful or frightened or panicked or depressed any more. He was just... dead.

.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

“Harry,” Hermione said as she approached him with the Marauders Map in her hands. She had found him in a curious room she had never noticed before. A little chapel, forgotten and forsaken, with smashed windows and aged candles and pews that looked as if they had not sat anyone for centuries. 

Harry wiped his eyes angrily. “Yeah.”

It was a statement. All it said was ‘Yes, you found me. Yes, I’m here.’

“Are you okay?” Hermione’s tone was soft and concerned. 

Harry concluded that Hermione must have guessed the reason for his frantic departure from the Great Hall; no one had known what he had been up too during the summer and more specifically, who he had been up to it with.

“He’s dead.”

“He is, yes.”

Harry fell into sobbing, crouched so he could bury his head into his knees.

“What am I going to do?” Harry wailed. “How could he do this? Why does it hurt so fucking much?”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. She had seen Harry grieved before, but this time was born of something much more attached to the core of Harry’s being.

“I think we should get out of school early before the holidays,” Hermione told him. “Maybe go to Shell Cottage or the Burrow?”

That Hermione was willing to leave school for any amount of time spoke volumes to Harry, but all he could do was shiver with the pain of losing his loved one.

“Ron will come too,” Hermione tried, “and we can help you.”

Harry was accepting of Hermione’s hand, her embrace, her guiding him to McGonagall’s office. He let her lead the conversation, choosing to look with despair at the portraits of Dumbledore and Snape in the Headmistresses office. They looked back at him pitifully.

“Go on Harry,” McGonagall told him kindly. “Take as long as you need.”

Harry thought he might need forever and no time at all. It wouldn’t matter. Draco was dead.

.

.

.

Molly made the Burrow Harry’s sanctuary for a week before he decided to go back to school. 

He spoke little during his time there, but he let himself be comforted by his friends. He opened up on the night before he went back to Hogwarts, to a room filled with George, Arthur, Molly, Hermione and Ron.

“He came to see me after his trial. He never left. I... I fell in love with him but then he started getting sick. You know... in the head. And I tried to help him but I couldn’t... I think he was just so fucked up by the war and what he had done in it, even though most of it wasn’t his fault. He told me what happened at the Manor, he told me what he saw. I did everything I could to help... I did... there was nothing else I could do but try and get him to help himself. I should of stayed with him... I shouldn’t have gone back to school.”

“This isn’t your fault,” George told him. “I’ve tortured myself for months thinking if I did this or that, Fred wouldn’t have died. It’s like a piece of me died when he died and it’s never coming back. But neither Fred or Draco’s deaths are because of us.”

“You did the right thing going back to school,” Arthur pitched in. “You are trying to get yourself better.”

“Yes,” Hermione joined in. “It was the right choice. Draco made his own decisions too, and although they were wrong, you couldn’t have predicted this.”

“I knew something was wrong though. I was going back home to help.”

“I know, Harry. I’m so sorry.”

Harry broke down into sobs that left him gasping. “I miss him so much,” he cried. “I love him so much. I want him back.”

“I know mate,” George soothed, rubbing Harry’s back, “I know.”

.

.

.

He attended the funeral, and he hugged Narcissa, and he told her that he loved her son, and she asked him to accompany her in to the Manor from the graveyard on the grounds.

“He left a note,” she told him. “Do you want to see it?”

“Does it say why he did it?”

“No. But he says that he loves you and that your time together was the best time of his life.”

“It was mine, too,” Harry told her honestly.

“Knowing my son had someone like you love him in his final days is the only thing that can bring me joy now. Thank you.”

Harry nodded. 

“I’m sorry Narcissa. I think I need to go now. But I will come back and see you sometime, I promise.”

“I would like that,” Narcissa smiled at Harry. “Thank you.”

.

.

.

He would never go back to Grimmauld Place, because he would find too much of Draco there in both memory and material presence that it would break him into so many little pieces he would be glued back together as another person entirely.

Over the Christmas holidays, he let Hermione and Ron clear it out, put it on the market, and help him buy a house close to the Burrow. 

He finished his schooling, and he was a shallowed for a long time before he started to return to himself. Although he was forever marked by his short time with Draco and the tragedy Draco left him with, he found happiness in growing up into a man who went and saw the world, indulged in time with his friends, and doing all the normal things one does in their life.

After Narcissa’s death, and with no heirs or relatives to pass the Manor on to, Harry purchased the estate and held it in tip top form for many years before he gifted it to Hogwarts for their own uses as a finishing school. He hid the graveyard with a charm similar to the Fidelius, and visited it every year until the year he died.

On the spectral plane, Draco was waiting for him.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suicide is not the answer. It breaks people. It broke Harry here, and it will break entire sets of families and friends. So I urge you, dear reader, to reach out for help when you need it. Take your mind potions, open up to your friends and Mind Healers, and read some damn good crack!fics to help you smile.


End file.
